Assassin's Shadow (Veiled Dagger Book 2) (11 page)

The news of Ariswold’s passing saddened Rothar. He had known the apothecary for a very long time, and, in truth, the old man’s knowledge had probably saved his life more than once. His demise only further resolved Rothar’s determination to find the people responsible for all of the misery that had been brought upon the King’s City, especially Witherington.

The party of huntsmen had been forced to stop for the evening when a torrential storm let loose from the black clouds overheard. The density of the Banewood provided a good cover from the rain, but the gusting winds knocked down large tree limbs and made traveling treacherous. The group had found a cave in which to wait out the storm and spend the night.

Peregrin sat beside him as Rothar warmed himself by the small camp fire. Outside, the wind blasted across the mouth of the cave, creating a haunting howl that echoed past the men and disappeared somewhere deep in the recesses of the cavern. Occasionally, between gusts of wind and crashes of thunder, the ominous humming could be heard somewhere high overhead.

They had continued along the same route frequented by the dark shapes, as it had coincided exactly with the hoof print and blood trail that they had been tracking, so much so that they eventually stopped watching the ground for signs and just stayed in the line of travel of the mysterious flying shadows.

“Care to venture a guess yet?” asked Peregrin as they sat around the fire.

Rothar looked at him quizzically. Peregrin motioned towards the mouth of the cave, the humming sound could be heard somewhere in the distance.

“What are they? Are they animal? Weather? Demon?” said Peregrin.

“Perhaps all of the above?” quipped Rothar with a wry smile.

Peregrin laughed without humor. “Well, whatever they are, they seem to be heading to wherever our scouts… were taken.”

“Indeed,” Rothar said, leaning forward to put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “You know that, when we find them, we are going to make this right.”

Peregrin looked Rothar in the eye. “That is our way.”

Suddenly, from outside came a deafening roar. A blinding light blazed and shone into the cave mouth, turning the night to a golden day. Rothar rushed to the cave entrance, followed by Peregrin and the rest of the search party.

The sky was on fire. Rain still pelted down and the wind still howled, but much of the sky above the Banewood blazed and crackled in an orange inferno. As the men watched, an oblong ball of flame fell slowly, until it touched the tops of the trees, setting limbs ablaze. Lowering deeper and deeper into the canopy, the hellish spectacle continued to emit a low sound, a droning hum that persisted until the whole mess broke apart amidst the giant trees, sending trails of flame in every direction.

The storm increased and rain fell in sheets so thick that the only thing visible beyond was the diminishing flames of the mystery.

***

At the first light of morning, Rothar, Peregrin and the rest of the men came down from their hillside cave to inspect the blackened remains of whatever had fallen. Nestled among the flame scarred trees was a charred skeleton, a rib cage of jet black rib bones jutting heavenward at the height of ten men.

“What type of godless beast was this?!” exclaimed Stone.

Rothar walked among the bones. He reached out and put his hand on one of the towering spikes, which were still warm. He removed his dagger from it’s sheath and stabbed it deep into one of the ribs, twisting it and prying. A chunk of matter splintered out and away, revealing a light brown grain beneath.

“Wood,” said Rothar. “This was no animal, it was man made.”

Peregrin looked doubtful. “A flying machine? That is not possible.”

Rothar shrugged. “I saw only what you saw. What do you suppose?”

Shaking his head, Peregrin was silent.

“Why did it burn so quickly?” asked Dewitt.

Rothar looked to the sky, now a clear blue and more visible through the gaping hole that the craft had burned in the canopy.

“I would guess that it was struck by lightning,” he replied. “And that whatever else it was made out of, was also very flammable.”

A ways off, Gamble the marksman called out to them. When they approached, Rothar saw that he was standing over the charred remains of three men. The bodies sat single file in a long, blackened wooden box, much like a horse cart.

Rothar turned to Peregrin. “Do you believe me now?”

As they continued to inspect the remains of the mysterious contraption, the droning hum had again come to them through the woods. The men all took cover and watched as yet another flying contraption hovered over the Banewood. Now, through the new opening in the canopy, it could be seen more clearly, yet it was still so difficult to grasp. One thing was for certain, there was a wooden box mounted to the bottom of the giant orb, and there were men in that box. The floating apparition seemed to be moving slowly, and Rothar caught glimpses of men peering down towards the ground. It seemed as if they knew that they had lost a craft, and were searching for it.

The appearance of the craft heading east was actually fortunate for the search party. The previous night’s storm had washed away the ground trail, if there had been no other craft to follow, they may have lost their way altogether.

“I still do not see how it is possible,” argued Peregrin as the party continued on through the Banewood.

“I truly can not make sense of it myself, Peregrin,” Rothar said. “Yet, I am not a man of science. I do remember Ariswold telling me about how some elements are lighter than air.”

Peregrin scoffed. “Lighter than air? Are you sure the old man was not already smoking the Obscura?”

“He very well could have been smoking something, but no, this was long before the Obscura ever showed up. He told me that certain gases are less weighty than the air around us, and if they could be harnessed in great enough volume, they could have the potential to lift objects into the air.”

“That sounds insane,” said Peregrin.

“No doubt, and we will sound insane if we tell anyone what we have seen out here,” Rothar replied. “That does not make it any less real.”

The men rode at a faster clip today, trying to keep the floating orb in sight ahead of them while remaining for enough back to avoid being spotted.

By late morning they rode out of the eastern edge of the Banewood, and were forced to fall further back due to a lack of tree cover. They began crossing the great plains and rolling hills of the eastern part of the kingdom. Huge herds of sheep and cattle scattered ahead of them as the flying machine passed over, then came back together only to be split again as the pursuing riders galloped through. Rothar had a vast knowledge of all parts of the kingdom, and he noticed the the flyers were making a wide berth around any villages, wisely avoiding detection.

As the barren white peaks of the Andrelicas Mountains began to appear on the horizon ahead, it occurred to Rothar that this adventure was taking them beyond the reaches of the Kingdom. None of the men knew what they may be riding into, but Rothar knew it would be fruitless to try to convince any of these men to turn back. He was riding alongside the huntsmen, the bravest and most loyal men in this kingdom or any other. And they were in pursuit of their lost brethren. No, there was no point in trying to convince anyone of anything. He was riding with the right men.

Night was falling over the King’s City, but the sky was still alight. Looking out over the capital from a veranda at Castle Staghorn, Taria wondered if anything would be left standing by the end of this.

Earlier, attacks on the royal residence had been squelched immediately by the sheer force of the King’s guard. Knights had been summoned to assist the sentries, and their expertise had been effective. No less than twenty dead men had been cleared from the surrounding streets before dark. However the mob had been small, and there were a great many more deranged citizens running the streets below. They would eventually run out of things to destroy, and they would come calling.

The carnage made Taria think of the desert. Perhaps the badlands had not been such a poor place to build an empire. If your people become restless - or go mad - there is very little for them to burn. A person can only take out so much rage on a tent.

Taria walked back inside and checked on the other two. Esme was sleeping soundly for perhaps the first time in weeks. Before leaving to help the people in Witherington, Harwin had told them that the poor girl had been having nightmares ever since she was rescued from Miranda’s Manor. Allette had set to searching for a cure in the book that she had taken from Ariswold’s. After a few minutes and an order from the castle kitchen, Allette had concocted a drink that was supposed to stifle dreams. Exhausted, Esme had taken the mixture without protest and drifted off to sleep almost immediately.

Allette was lying on her own bed, book in hand but eyes closed. Her head nodded slightly. Taria went to her and gently removed the large tome from her hands. Allette stirred slightly, then rolled over on her side as Taria pulled the covers up over her shoulders.

Once she was certain that both girls were sleeping well, Taria slipped out into the corridor. King Heldar had already made good on his promise to open the castle gates to refugees in need of shelter. The myriad of rooms lining the long hallways were teeming with all manner of humanity. To Taria’s delight, no effort had been made to separate anyone by social class, and Witherington peasants were setting up house next to the richest nobles in the land. There was a small amount of griping from the highborn crowd, but all in all everyone was just pleased to be behind the fortified walls of Castle Staghorn.

Moving through the busy corridors, Taria received no small amount of attention. Many of these people had probably never seen a Southlander in person, and a Southland woman was even more of a rarity in civilized places. Some of the older men looked at her with suspicion or contempt, but most people just stared at her in awe, as though she was some sort of exotic animal. The experience both exhilarated and terrified her.

Casually, Taria followed her instincts and moved to the lower parts of the castle, looking for servants quarters and service entrances. She passed a number of guards but they merely tipped their heads to her in reverence and allowed her to pass. All of the guards and soldiers had been told about the Southland woman and that they were to treat her, and protect her, as though she were a part of the royal family herself.

After following a long and winding staircase, Taria found a narrow hallway lit by torches. From the sounds and smells coming from one end of the passage, she could tell that she was near the kitchen. She turned and walked away from the pleasant smells of bread baking and meat cooking. The corridor was lined with small, sparsely furnished but clean rooms. Some of the rooms were occupied with servants turning in for the night. Others were empty but all were open to allow fresh air to flow through the rooms. Taria could feel a light breeze coming from far down the hallway.

Walking towards the draft, Taria paused as she passed a room that contained a number of child’s toys. There was a small sword and shield, and a wooden rocking horse in the corner. On the headboard of the small bed was carved a letter “R.”

Taria thought about how the King held Rothar in such high regard, and how they had the same piercing green eyes, and she could not help but wonder.

A distant sound came from behind her and interrupted her thoughts. Someone had walked out of the kitchen and was coming her way. Taria began again to walk towards the source of the fresh air. The further she went, the stronger the breeze became, and with it, her desire to be out of this stifling castle.

At the end of the corridor was an open door. She walked out into the cool night air of yet another lavish garden, although this one seemed bigger and darker than the Queen’s personal conservatory. The door was unguarded, but she could see sentries patrolling the outer wall in the near distance.

Taria walked quietly, staying close to the castle. Once, a sentry at the wall turned his head to look at her, and she knelt to smell a chrysanthemum. Slowly, she made her way to a corner of the garden where a single, gnarled tree reached up higher than the top of the wall. She could tell that some of the trees limbs had been recently trimmed back to prevent them reaching out over the top, most likely in response to the earlier attacks.

Taria did not need the overhanging branches. She simply scaled the trunk of the tree with the ease of a lizard. Once she was above the wall she waited for a time when no guard was passing near and leapt, landing easily on her feet. Taria clamored down the other side of the wall soundlessly and walked off into the night, leaving behind both the safety and the utter discomfort of Castle Staghorn.

Cold winds blasted Rothar and the huntsmen, and icicles formed on their beards and moustaches. The Andrelicas were, thankfully, a smaller mountain range, but the peaks boasted weather like no other place Rothar had ever traveled. Snow and hail blew parallel to the earth at all times, and the men had to walk their horses. Rothar was reminded of the reason he had packed for any contingency.

Only occasionally could the men glimpse the flying machine, far in the distance. Rothar marveled that it remained afloat in the air, and imagined that it must somehow be able to travel above the worst of the storm. Still, the orb could be seen twisting and rocking, buffeted by the punishing winds.

After a day of walking, they were finally beginning a descent and the winds from the peaks now blew at their backs. The horses’ hooves skidded and slipped as the descent became steeper. The men had to be careful to stay clear of the stumbling animals. At long last, the terrain began to level out and the going became easier. The men remounted the horses and rode out the last miles of the Andrelicas range. The temperature remained freezing, but Rothar knew from past conversations with travelers that at the foot of the mountains was a red desert.

The sun began to set early, blocked out by the icy peaks behind them. The streaks of evening light that shone around the jagged peaks illuminated a desolate expanse ahead of them, deep scarlet in the failing light.

It was decided that they would stop where the ice met the sand and set up camp for the night, with no man wishing to go into uncharted territory in utter darkness. The men built small fires and kept them low, but they could tell by the silence on the night air that the flying machine had gone on.

“So do we simply head east until we find where it goes?” asked Stone over a dinner of bread and figs.

“That does not seem wise,” replied Gamble. “We will be in wide open desert with no place to take cover if it, or anything else, comes back.”

All heads turned to Rothar, but his eyes were closed.

“Please allow me a little rest,” he said. “Shortly, I will go ahead and scout. Before you wake in the morning I will know what lies ahead.”

“I am going with you,” said Peregrin.

“No, you are not,” Rothar said firmly. “You need to rest as well, and I want you to stay with your men. I will travel faster alone at any rate.”

Peregrin began to protest but Rothar opened his eyes and silenced his friend with a look. All was quiet around the fires as everyone listened to the night and the steady, rhythmic sound of Rothar’s breathing as he slept for the first time in days.

***

Rothar awoke in the middle of the night. There was never any need to rouse him, but Peregrin had remained awake. The others were sleeping, wrapped in their bedrolls around the flickering flames.

“Sleep now,” Rothar said to Peregrin as he saddled up Stormbringer and prepared to leave.

“I have to talk to you first,” said Peregrin softly.

Rothar looked at the huntsman and waited.

“Your whole life has been this,” Peregrin gestured around at the night. “Going off on suicide missions and caring not at all. You always come back, you always win. But someday, Rothar, you may not return.”

Rothar shifted in the saddle. “That is true for all of us, Peregrin,” he said.

“Of course,” replied the huntsman. “What I think you need to consider is this: you are no longer alone, there is someone who depends on you. You have a responsibility, and it is not to King Heldar.”

Rothar scowled. “I hope you are not implying that I do not care enough for Taria to keep myself alive. If anything, I have more reason to stay alive now than I ever have before.”

Peregrin sighed. “I hope that is true, because if I come back from this place without you… I love Taria too much to do that.”

Nodding, Rothar said, “I believe you.”

With that Rothar rode quietly off into the night.

***

The night was moonless, but the desert felt as flat as a still pond beneath Stormbringer’s gait. Rothar dared not light a torch, not knowing what lie ahead. He was forced to rely fully on instinct - both Stormbringer’s and his own.

The ground was hard and the horse’s steps made a hollow sound in the silent night. The skittering sounds of scorpions dashing out from under hoof mixed with the occasional call of a night bird created a rather haunting effect.

Rothar rode for what he guessed to be around two hours time before he began to notice something different on the horizon ahead. A separation of darkness seemed to be looming ahead, a division of blackness and greater blackness. Soon, Rothar could differentiate between the night sky and the obstacle before him. The line of darkness extended as far as he could see in either direction.

Finally, Rothar and Stormbringer reacher a wall that was larger than any he had ever seen. It dwarfed the southern wall of the King’s City and looked as smooth as the desert that surrounded it. In the darkness, Rothar could not even make out arrow slits in the featureless facade.

Looking one way and then the other and seeing nothing, Rothar picked a direction at random, steering Stormbringer to the left, heading north along the wall. There is no wall without a gate, and Rothar estimated that he had a few hours to find one.

As he rode, strange and distant sounds began to reach him, seemingly from beyond the wall. High pitched squeals and deep concussions, a chanting like a deep incantation, all carried by the air on a windless night. At one point came a sound with which he had become very familiar, and he drew Stormbringer close to the wall as a massive flying orb drifted over the wall and headed back to the west. Rothar hoped that the huntsmen would hear it coming in time and douse their fires, otherwise, they would stand out like solitary stars on a dark night.

Once the craft had passed, Rothar continued along the way. He was considering starting back to the foot of the mountains to make sure his companions were safe, when he saw a faint column of light far up ahead. He rode a short ways and then dismounted Stormbringer, commanding the horse to stay put, and continued on foot. A wide gate was cut into the impervious stone wall, and a faint firelight spilled out through the cracks in the heavy wooden door.

The gateway itself was unguarded, and hugging close to the wall, Rothar moved into the portal and put his eye to one of the cracks. Inside, he could see several fires atop long poles, horse carts were bustling about in all directions, as if on a busy market street at midday, but there were no peddlers visible, only the cart drivers.

Rothar needed to find a way in. None of the cart drivers seemed to be paying much attention to the gate, so he set to work on the locking mechanism with his dagger. The lock was complex, and unlike anything Rothar had ever seen before. He began to wonder who these people were, who invented flying machines and lived in a near invisible city in the middle of a red desert.

Suddenly, a light exploded behind Rothar’s eyes and his head throbbed with a terrible concussion. He spun and lashed out with the blade but caught only air. From the darkness beyond, he saw a terrible, skeletal face leaning down towards him, sneering with a fleshless grin. He thrust out again with the dagger, and again he missed, before his world faded to black.